


1947Chicago

by gearbox



Category: due South
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-20
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-26 07:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/280428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearbox/pseuds/gearbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a back-country boy finds trouble in the big city, he hires Ray Kowalski, hardboiled Chicago PI. They encounter femmes and hommes fatale, corpses, and hear the sound of Raymond Chandler rolling over in his cold dark grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a back-country boy finds trouble in the big city, he hires Ray Kowalski, hardboiled Chicago PI. They encounter femmes and hommes fatale, corpses, and hear the sound of Raymond Chandler rolling over in his cold dark grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to: Maxine Meyer  
> Valerie King, research assistant extraordinaire -- she unearthed the tunnels and the number of Mounties assigned to each detachment in the NWT in the 1940s.  
> LaTonya, for legal historical research  
> Surfgirl for Chicago historical research, and film noir suggestions

It was just another steamy August day at the office. I sorted the mail, tossed the overdue bills in the trash, and ripped open the single remaining letter. No return address, postmarked from here in Chicago, and scented with flowery cheap perfume. Smelled promising.

Crash! It sounded like a buffalo'd tripped over the bike my neighbor leaves propped up in the hallway. I unsnapped the flap of my shoulder holster, just on general principle, and opened the door.

At my feet lay a hat. Not yer working-Joe cotton keep-the-sun-off hat, and not a fancy felted-wool man-around-town hat. It was a hat with style, but not a city style, a flat-brimmed Stetson. Just beyond it, a large finely shaped hand lay on the floor. I followed the hand to wrist, the wrist to the bright-red long-sleeved tunic, and the tunic to the face of an Adonis, a matinee idol. Black hair, not a strand out of place even on a sweltering day like today, even after that tumble. Blue eyes blinked up at me, still stunned from his fall.

I was suddenly aware of my undone tie, my rolled shirt sleeves. I didn't let it show on my face, though. I squatted, and handed the Stetson back to him. "Let me guess, you're new in town."

He rose to his knees. "Yes. Thank you kindly." He didn't hurry to stand, and we spent a minute taking in the view. He saw a sweaty private dick hunkered down on his skinny haunches. I saw something out of a dream. Not a speck of dust on him, not a trace of sweat. Perfect. Who was this guy, and did I love him or hate him?

He was looking for me, as it turned out. I settled him into the client's chair (the one without broken springs), offered him a smoke which he turned down. It was a shame, I woulda enjoyed watching those perfect red lips close around a cigarette.

"Mint?" I pulled the dusty candy jar out of the back of the top desk drawer. I kept it for the kids who tagged along with unhappily married ladies, or for the occasional good-looking teetotaller. I didn't offer Red anything to drink -- I'd finished off the bourbon in the bottom drawer last week. I brushed the worst of the dust off the cover and held it out to him.

"Yes, please."

He unwrapped the hard candy and popped it in his mouth, not too fast. I was mesmerized watching him suck on the lozenge. I thought I saw him watching me through his lowered lashes.

"You mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

I considered him while I lit up. If I wasn't mistaken, that was a Mountie dress uniform he had on. I'd heard a rumor about a crooked Mountie once, but that'd been from a compulsive liar. This guy looked like he could take care of himself -- at least on his home turf. If he was on official business here, he'd be talking to the cops. But here he was, sitting in my office. Curious and more curiouser.

"What can I do for you, Constable. . .?"

"Fraser. Benton Fraser. I need your help."

"Go on."

"I've come to Chicago on the trail of my father's killer --"

"Whoah, Red! That's what the Chicago police are for."

He looked away for just a moment. "Yes. I have contacted them. A Detective Vecchio has been assigned the case, but I suspect that a private investigator might be more. . . motivated to work on the case."

"Vecchio, huh? I hate his guts, but he's a not a bad cop. You saying he's stalling, or are there complications?"

He smiled, briefly. That little upturn of his lips was the prettiest thing that I'd seen in my office since Frannie quit. I still didn't know what the case was about, but I knew I'd be taking it.

"There are, as you say, complications. The foremost being that I am about to be arrested as a murder suspect, and I am unsure whether Detective Vecchio will continue to pursue the case while I am unable to assist him." He started unbuttoning that tunic, and my blood pressure started to rise. "I've taken the liberty of obtaining a copy of the casework for you," he reached into the stiff red serge, pulled out a battered manila folder, and handed it to me across the desk. Then, much to my regret, he buttoned the uniform back up.

"Ya know, here in Chicago, we usually carry papers in a briefcase."

I opened the slightly damp folder -- ah, he does sweat after all -- and glanced at the contents. Standard police file, but the handwriting wasn't Vecchio's. Without looking up, I said, "So, who'd you off?"

"Off? I haven't killed anyone. But I admit the circumstances make me a likely candidate for the police. I've eluded them for the time being, until I could retain your services. If possible, I would also like you to look into the second murder."

"All right then. Who's dead?"

"Alderman Orsini."

Jesus. I wished I had some bourbon left. Not that I hadn't wished the bastard dead myself, but I could tell this case was just going to be more fun than a can of worms. I glanced at the phone and then away. "Has anyone told the widow?"

"Mrs. Orsini was, in fact, with me at the time. We found the corpse together."

"How'd she take it?"

He blinked. That wasn't the question he'd expected me to ask. "She ah, was suitably horrified, but once past the initial shock, she coped admirably. Mrs. Orsini was quite professional about ensuring that no evidence be disturbed until the police arrived."

"Yeah, that sounds like her." Before he could comment on that, I hefted the file, "You know, even if you're cleared of the murder, taking this is obstruction of justice."

"I didn't remove the police file, I merely copied it. I would never obstruct justice."

"But you might occasionally obstruct the police?"

"Only when they are incorrect."

I couldn't help smiling. I told him my rates, he paid a deposit without quibbling, and we went over the case. Just as night was falling, I made a phone call to my old boss at the 27th. I told Welsh he could cancel the APB on Fraser. Then we sat in my office listening to the kids playing stickball outside and talking about this and the other.

"Why the fancy dress?" I asked.

"When I left Canada I was in rather a hurry to follow the trail of the killer. I didn't bother to pack a change of clothes."

"You were wearing your dress uniform when you heard about your Pop's death?"

"No, I left directly from the funeral."

"And that was. . ."

"Seven days ago."

I looked him over again. Either he was the best liar I'd ever met or he was a miracle on legs. No wrinkles, no stains, there wasn't even any lint on the uniform.

***********************

CHANGE OF POV

It takes the cops a while to get to the office. They play poker.

***********************

"Fold." Kowalski put down the cards he was holding. "So. Did you whack Orsini?"

"Excuse me?" Fraser suspected that the private investigator was actually upping the ante on another game, even as he bowed out of this round of poker.

"You hired me to look into Orsini's murder." Kowalski leaned forward, fore arms flat on the table. With his sleeves rolled up, his suit jacket off, and his tie undone, he should have looked sloppy, or at least relaxed. Instead, the disarray of his clothes somehow heightened the intensity of his eyes. He was watching Fraser with cop's eyes, judging reactions, intent. "You told me the cops are looking for you. From what I can tell, without talking to Mrs. Orsini or looking at the scene, you're an obvious suspect."

"I never met the man."

"But did you do him?"

"No."

"What about Mrs. Orsini. You do her?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"You know what I'm suggesting. Orsini had a powerful job, big bank account, beautiful wife. One of 'em probably got him killed."

"I didn't realized that Mr. Orsini had any of those advantages. I was referred to Mrs. Orsini in her professional capacity."

Kowalski looked disappointed in him. "I knew you were too good to be true. You didn't notice Stella's a looker?"

Fraser cracked his neck. "I, ah, I admit that Mrs. Orsini's quite attractive."

"Damn right, she is!" Kowalski replied, with something like satisfaction.

***********************

I'd expected patrolmen, but Welsh sent two of his detectives. I opened the door to Gardino and that smug bastard, Vecchio. All right, I might have to surrender my client to them, but I didn't have to let them into my office. I blocked the door.

"Hey Louis. Nice to see you. When'd you make detective?"

"Right about the time you quit, ya dumb Polack." Gardino showed affection through insults, so I figured we were still good. "How's the PI biz going? You still have that tasty dish working the phones for you?" Gardino also made a habit of stuffing his foot in his mouth, all the way up to his crotch.

"We're not here talk, we're here to pick up a murder suspect," Vecchio interrupted. He tried to shoulder past me, but I stood him off. Once I was sure he wasn't going to rush me, I turned my head. "Hey Red, time to get your hat. Your ride is here."

Vecchio said, "So what is this, you're harboring fugitives these days? How does that pay?"

"Don't be any dumber than you have to be, Vecchio. I called it in, let Welsh know where to find him. Run Fraser in if you got to, but you're going to have to cut him loose again. He didn't murder Orsini."

"No?" Gardino said, "Then who did?"

I shook my head. "Come to the table when you have something to put in the pot. Here's my number." I handed Gardino a card. Vecchio knew my number already.

By then Fraser was standing at my shoulder. I opened the door wider to let him out.

They cuffed him.

As the three of them started back down the hall, I said, "Oh, and Vecchio? Say hi to your little sister for me."

I got to give him credit, Vecchio didn't even slow down. He just said, "On a cold day in hell, Kowalski." And he kept walking.

* * *

NOTES:  
The backstory I want to come through is:  
Ray Vecchio never went undercover with the Mob. He's a detective under Welsh. He knows and  
dislikes Kowalski for as-yet unspecified reasons. He only just met Fraser. His partner  
is Louis Gardino.

Ray Kowalski never went undercover as Ray Vecchio. He was a cop, quit (for reasons that  
are explained later), and is now scraping by as a private investigator, with the  
attitude, if not the prose style, of a Raymond Chandler protagonist. At one time, Francesca  
Vecchio was his office assistant. He intensely dislikes her brother Ray. He smokes and  
drinks and doesn't volunteer the information that Stella is his ex-wife. He may be gay -- at the  
very least he has a fine appreciation for male beauty.

Fraser has, within a few hours of arriving in the Windy City, met several policemen including  
Ray Vecchio, met Stella Orsini on business, discovered her husband's corpse, met the intriguing Ray  
Kowalski, and been arrested on suspicious of Orsini's murder. He doesn't entirely trust  
the Chicago PD to investigate the murder, so he copied the case file (and his having the  
time to do that is just one of those DS whimsical impossibilities, like whittling a reproduction  
of "David" from a block of wood in a couple minutes.) He is severely out of his  
element, has lost his backpack, is temporarily Dief-less, and is spending money on lawyers  
and PIs at an appalling rate. Fraser is not having a good day, but he's covering as best he can.  
Which is pretty darned good -- this is Fraser, after all.

Francesca exists. Something about her past involvement with Kowalski pisses off her brother Ray.

Welsh exists, and is both Vecchio's boss and Kowalski's ex-boss.

Stella exists, is a lawyer (somewhat unusual but not unheard of at the time), was married to  
Ray Kowalski at one time but doesn't volunteer that information, was married to Orsini until  
he was murdered a couple hours ago, and has just met Fraser.

* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen sweet-heart, cold hard cash is all well and good, but this is fanfic and I've got a writer's ego to feed. Pay up with feedback, got it? Send LOCs, and no one gets hurt -- except in good ways.
> 
> * * *


	2. Chapter 2

  


#   
1947Chicago, Frannie and the greenbeans  


"Francesca!"

Frannie opened the door of her room just long enough to call, "I'll be down in a minute, Ma!" before closing and locking it again. She turned back to the scattered bills on the bedspread. So little cash left. No money, no husband, no home of her own, not even a job anymore.

Still, she was a Vecchio, and she was young, and she had prospects. So little left, she might as well carry it with her. She hid her nest-egg away in her girdle, checked that her hair still curled neatly, and went down to dinner.

When Ray saw the greenbeans on the table, he opened his mouth to complain, but Frannie kicked him under the table. She tipped her head towards Mama, spooning polenta onto the baby's dish. Then she got up and went into the kitchen.

Ray followed. "What? You know I hate greenbeans. Why'd Ma make 'em?"

"I lost the catering company, Ray. The clients wouldn't hire us if we couldn't promise that we'd have meat and butter, and the grocer wouldn't give us any more credit since Zuko's cousin stiffed us."

"And this has to do with greenbeans, how?"

She sighed, infuriated at his lack of understanding. "No clients, no money. No money, no credit. No credit, no vegetables from the market. We're eating the rest of the veggies from last year's Victory garden, and this year's too. And that means --"

"Greenbeans."

"Lots of them." Frannie agreed.

Ray scratched what little hair remaining on his head. "It's enough to make me eat out for dinner, too."

"Eat out! What, you'll be down at the diner while we're feeding the baby strained greenbeans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner! You already spend enough eating lunch!"

"Frannie, you know I can't brown-bag lunch." He sighed. "I'll talk to Tony about kicking in some more. And I'll ask the Lieutenant about overtime. Anyway, it'll be nice for Ma and Maria to have you around to help out."

"I'm not going to be around to help out, Ray. I'm going to get another job."

He looked at her in exasperation, "Doing what, Frannie? There's thousands of men still walking the streets, looking for jobs since they were discharged. Who's gonna hire you? Your catering business lost money, that jerk you got involved with before still owes you money --"

"Ray Kowalski is not a jerk! And we weren't involved. He was just --"

"Raymundo, Francesca, are you coming back to the table?"

"Yes, Ma, be there in a minute." Ray turned back to Frannie. "He treated you lousy. He nearly got you killed. Don't you mention his name in this house."

"It's my life, Ray!"

"Yeah, but it's my house." Ray turned and left the kitchen.

Frannie was left staring at the doorway. His house. His doorway. Although the deed said it was Ray's house, they both knew it really belonged to Ma. But Ma wouldn't argue with Ray. She'd just quietly make sure that he came around to her way of thinking, eventually.

Frannie tidied the counters; empty pans in the basin, food in the icebox, all the detritus of making a big Italian meal. If she stayed at home, she'd have to listen to Maria and Ma talking about babies and husbands all day. Ma didn't believe in women working outside the home.

Ma thought she should marry Marty Caruso. Just because he had a job, and he was Italian, and he went to their church, and he was interested in her. But Marty Caruso had a face like a toad, and a personality to match.

She put the unused eggplant back in the bin, suddenly sickened by the thought of so much food. So much Italian food. She wanted something different, something she'd never cooked, something easy, like a sausage and beer at a ball game.

That sounded just like Ray Kowalski. Frannie smiled, sadly. Even his being Catholic wasn't enough to atone for the twin crimes of being Polish and quitting the police force. But when she'd been his receptionist, and for the short while when he'd tried to train her in the field, he'd been a total gentleman. Okay, he'd yelled at her a couple times and he didn't hold doors or anything, and he still hadn't paid her for the last three months she'd worked for him, but he was fun to be around. He didn't ignore her, like Ray did, like Tony did. (Of course, Tony had to ignore her, if he didn't want Maria to hit him with the frying pan. But he didn't have to _ignore_ her.)

She caught herself about to run water to wash the dishes. Let Maria wash the dishes. Frannie had had enough of family obligations. She checked her hair one last time in the side of the shiny toaster, then let herself out the kitchen door.

* * *

  
  
---


	3. 1947Chicago, Fraser on guard duty

  


#   
1947Chicago, Fraser on guard duty  


 

Fraser, thinking, while on guard duty

* * *

Ray Kowalski had the most beautiful hands he'd ever seen on a man.

Fraser shifted a fraction of an inch, and froze again at his post outside the Consulate door. Some thoughts were better left unthought during guard duty, and that had been one of them.

He would think about that later. . . perhaps while. . . well, back home there was no end of manual labor to be performed that would give his body a chance to act while his mind was otherwise occupied. But here there was no dog team or horse to exercise, no wood to chop, no circuit to patrol. . . for all that Chicago was a big and (he had to admit) a beautiful city, it was a desert utterly lacking in proper activities for a Mountie. Perhaps he could convince the janitor to allow him to stoke the furnace.

But even that wasn't as strenuous and continuous an activity as he suspected he'd need to face the thoughts at the back of his mind. Perhaps he should just face it now, and damn the discomfort. He was, after all, a Mountie, and therefore one of the toughest and most competent men in this part of the world. Surely he could --

No. No, he couldn't.

His father had taught him a great many lessons -- a surprising number of things, given the paucity of their time together -- but this was one lesson Fraser wished that he hadn't learned: he had to face his thoughts as well as his actions. He could not repress a train of thought indefinitely.

Although some thoughts died when repressed, which was exactly what he wanted. But others were tougher, and repressing them took more effort over time. Like the wolves in the United States. In the Artic, the wolves co-existed with the few humans they ran into. Down here, however, the wolves had learned to fear humans and had become crafty, secretive, almost like Resistance Fighters in Germany. No -- rather like Soviet spies -- well except that that analogy didn't fit any better, since Fraser couldn't imagine wolves caring for any politics larger than that of the pack. And speaking of which (or, more properly: thinking of whom), where was Diefenbaker?

Just at the edge of Fraser's vision, the half-wolf sat motionless, in the alley next to the Consulate. Fraser had explained the concept of ceremonial guard duty to Diefenbaker, but the wolf had believed he was joking. His companion had since taken his position and stayed likewise still, waiting to see what sort of prey Fraser intended to catch by waiting motionless in this seemingly innocuous location.

Fraser was perfectly aware that he was babbling in mind, but since his thoughts seemed to have (finally!) taken a tangent from Ray Kowalski's hands, he was perfectly willing to let his mind wander.

* * *

  


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	4. 1947Chicago, Fraser out of jail

  


#   
1947Chicago, Fraser out of jail  


"Fraser!"

Benton Fraser stood up. "Here."

"You're out of here." The door swung open, and the prison guard led the way out of the holding cells. A familiar figure waited beside the prisoner property office.

"Detective Vecchio. Thank you for dropping the charges."

"You never were charged. Just held for questioning."

"But you questioned me yesterday."

"We like to hold on to murder suspects once we've got them. It's easy to misplace people in Chicago. You never do that in the Yukon?"

"Ah. Well, we did occasionally let people sleep in the cells if there were no other accommodations available. But generally we left the doors unlocked."

"Can't do that in the city. They'd steal the furniture."

Fraser thought that over for a moment. "But the bunks are bolted down."

Vecchio waited while Fraser retrieved his belongings from the clerk behind the grill. The detective watched without comment while Fraser dusted his Stetson, stowed a surprisingly small number of Canadian bills in the headband, refilled his pockets, and slid the wicked hunting knife back into its boot sheath. After Fraser signed for his belongings, Vecchio said, "Let me give you a ride home."

"That isn't necessary."

"I think it is. Come on, my car's this way. Once we checked out your story, we realized that you couldn't have done it. Orsini was dead even before you got to the house. You couldn't have gotten there in time to kill him."

"I believe I mentioned that during questioning," Fraser said. "Why didn't you believe me?"

"It's five miles, give or take, from the Consulate to Orsini's house. You said you walked."

"Yes. I did walk."

"Yeah, well, you're the only guy in Chicago that would've walked. Anyone else would take a taxi or ride the El."

"Ah, I see. But I haven't scouted out the Elevated Railway yet."

"Lucky for you, enough people remembered seeing you along the route that we could verify your story." Vecchio stopped by a striking green car.

"Isn't she a beaut?" Vecchio said, staring at his own car. "1932 Buick WHATTHEF*CKIFORGOT The MODEL AND JPG DAMMIT. Special paint job."

Once in the car, Fraser asked, "Since you've decided that I cannot be the murderer, who is the likeliest suspect?"

"I can't tell you that! You're still a suspect, just not a very likely one."

"Ah. I see. Well then, have you made any progress on finding the man who killed my father?"

"Nope. I've been spending all my time dealing with Orsini."

"But my case was given to you first."

"Listen, Fraser, I hate to break it to you, but an Alderman murdered on the Gold Coast yesterday beats a dead Mountie killed in the Yukon a week ago."

Vecchio turned left on the one-way street Fraser indicated.

"Where's this consulate?" Vecchio asked.

"That would be the building with the maple leaf flag above the door, and the RCMP officer on guard duty in front."

Vecchio stopped the squad car in front of the building on their left. "Right. The Mountie's a dead giveaway." He called, past Fraser, to the guard, "Hey buddy, is that your dog? We got leash laws in Chicago."

The man guarding the doorway didn't move. Fraser opened the door, replying, "I don't believe leash laws apply, in this case, since he isn't a dog-"

The silver-haired animal loped towards them, leaped past Fraser into the car, and started sniffing Vecchio.

"Hey! Get him off!"

"-but an artic wolf."

* * *

  


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	5. 1947Chicago, In the basement

  


#   
1947Chicago, In the basement  


 

Setup: Ray and Fraser are in hot pursuit of Donnelly,

* * *

"In the basement!" Kowalski shouted as he pounded down the stairwell, hot on the heels of the killer. I had only a minute to see that the basement was dark before the door swung shut in Kowalski's face. He moved to one side and put his back against the wall.

I fetched up against the wall on the other side of the door. We both had our guns out, breathing hard from the chase.

The next step, barrelling through the doorway, might get us killed. There was no other stairwell out of the basement. He was cornered. If he wasn't waiting to shoot us when we came through the door, he was a fool -- and we had ample proof that whatever else Donnelly might be, he was not stupid. Still, we had to follow him in, and the sooner the better, before he found the coal chute or some basement window that I might have overlooked.

Kowalski grinned at me. "Go high." He whispered, hoarse with the effort of breathing. "On three." He put on his glasses.

Something unfamiliar churned in my gut. A strange sort of excitement, different from the usual thrill of the chase. Elation, perhaps, at working with a partner. I nodded back to him, readied myself for his signal.

Then we sprang through the door, him low and rolling, myself leaping through higher. I would present a larger target, and for longer, but he would be covering me before I'd touched ground.

The silence within the basement was unexpected. I yanked at the chain for the overhead light. It took us only a moment to discover that he was not in the room. I turned my attention to seeking exits. And, for the second time in as many days, I tripped over evidence. "Ray? There are train tracks here."

Ray took one look and began to swear, "Sonufabitch! He's gone into the tunnels. Got a flashlight?"

"An electric torch? Yes."

"Good, we'll need it. There'll be an elevator someplace around here. . . the building gets it's coal through the freight tunnels. They run under all the streets around here. I've heard of them, but never been down here." We ran along the rails, "If he gets to a tunnel intersection, we've lost him," Kowalski explained, "He could get out anywhere."

The tracks ended on a platform, an industrial elevator. Kowalski headed for a rusty ladder leading into the stygian darkness. If Donnelly was intent on murder rather than escape, our backlit bodies at the top of the ladder would be an even more tempting target than our entrance through the basement door.

"Ray!" I whispered urgently, "Wait while I turn off the lights." I turned and sprinted back to the light chain. By the time I'd returned to the ladder, Kowalski was already well on his way down.

In silence, and with a sense of foreboding, I followed. I'd been averse to places below ground ever since, as a youth, I accidentally blew up an abandoned diamond mine during an attempted tryst with a girl from the next settlement over. It was months before either of us grew hair again on the backs of our heads, and to this day she won't speak to me. I now associate mines and tunnels with that first of many disastrous dates. With age, I've come to agree with my grandparents' insistence on chaperones for courting, if only because chaperones can supply prompt medical attention and limit the property damage liable to occur when the two sexes converge.

The ladder was remarkably long. I estimated we were three stories below the basement when I reached the bottom. Below Chicago's water table, certainly. The air was cool, musty, but not as damp as I would have expected. I could hear what might have been trains, weirdly distorted by the tunnels, in the distance. I could see a slightly less black spot in one direction.

Kowalski put a hand on my shoulder and whispered near my ear. "Tunnel's 'bout six feet across, rails right in the middle. Electric line for the trains is over our heads. You shine the light, I'll cover ya."

A fine plan, but Donnelly was nowhere in sight. He'd most likely headed towards lit portion of the tunnels. We followed, again at Ray's not-quite-a-sprint. The light we'd seen came from a lit tunnel at the first intersection.

"Left, right, or straight?"

The concrete floor gave up no prints or sign of his passing. I pulled out my compass, but it was useless, surrounded as we were by metal. I longed, uselessly, for my lupine companion. "Which way is the river?"

"East. To the right."

"He's gone left." I opined.

"Naw, I think he's gone straight."

"Back into the dark?"

"Gimme your light. We'll each go one block and then meet back here." Ray took the torch and headed into the darkness. I pulled my gun again, turned left, and ran down the lit tunnel. Parts of it were quite dim, a number of light bulbs had burnt out and gone unreplaced. I was guessing that Donnelly would seek egress closer to his home south-west of the Loop.

Because I could move faster in the lit tunnel than Kowalski in the dark one, I assumed I'd have time to go two blocks to his one. That was my undoing.

At the end of the second block, I took a moment to peer down the south-bound tunnel, and as I did so, the lights went out. Something hit me, a plank to the side of my head. I fell, and falling, heard Donnelly as he ran, as I'd guessed, to the south.

I don't believe I passed out, but it was a moment before I could push myself up from the floor. I was dizzy, and promptly sat. The horror of these tunnels, unnatural and unknown, which I'd ignored during the chase, came over me.

"This is no time to panic, son."

"No, Dad, I know that." I replied. "If I panic I won't be able to find the light switch."

"And without the lights, you and the Yank will both be lost down here. Where's your torch? Don't tell me you came down here improperly equipped!"

"I lent it to Ray, Dad."

I often thought I could hear my father's voice when I was in stressful situations, but he seemed unusually real to me now.

"Well here, use mine."

"Dad? Where are you?"

"Hm? Oh, right here, son." And he lit up with a milky glow, in his dress uniform. He was holding out his torch.

"Dad? How are you?"

"I'm dead, son. Other than that, you mean?"

"No. No, that was what I meant." Delusional. "Dad, I think I hit my head quite hard."

"No son, the criminal hit you. it does appear to be bleeding a fair bit, but then head wounds usually do. I wouldn't be surprised if it was concussed. Still, can't let a minor thing like that keep you from upholding the law. Up and at them, son. You're a Mountie, the sole force for law and order in the Territories, and that malfeasant needs to be brought in."

"Dad," I explained, "We're not in the Territories, we're in Chicago. We're in a series of badly maintained freight tunnels forty feet below the streets of downtown Chicago. "

"Really? Well, that would explain all those American accents."

"Whose accents, Dad? I can't hear anybody."

"Really? Well, I suppose they don't talk to just anybody. I suppose being alive must be a handicap. Don't let it worry you. I don't imagine you'll survive much longer if you let criminals get the jump on you like that."

My head was aching, and I found it increasingly difficult to think. I was getting worse, not better. "Dad, I don't want to die."

"No? Well, can't blame you, I didn't either. If you want to get out of here, and to a proper hospital, I'd suggest you turn the lights back on so that Ray can find you."

I'd heard the switch click, just before Donnelly'd hit me. It had to be someplace nearby. But I was disoriented and it was dark. I tried to remember which direction I'd heard Donnelly go. Then I started to crawl the other direction. My balance was going.

"No, no son, not that way. The switch is over here." He stood, about three yards off, his ghostly glow illuminating a knife switch mounted on the wall. I headed towards it. I suppose I reached it before I passed out, because when I awoke, the lights were on and Ray was next to me. My father, not surprisingly, was gone.

* * *

  


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	6. 1947Chicago, Vecchio's war story

  


#   
1947Chicago, Vecchio's war story  


Fraser, Kowalski, and Vecchio are waiting, talking over drinks.  


* * *

"Well, I spend a great deal of time alone in the bush. One gets to know oneself well in those conditions."

"That's God's own truth," Vecchio agreed.

"What would you know about it, City Boy?" Kowalski said, "You've never been alone in the middle of anywhere."

Vecchio paused, then said, "War story. In the Pacific, on patrol, my plane was went down. We weren't even shot, it was just an engine failure. I got out okay, but then I'm floating there, alone, in the middle of this endless blue. Figure I can last two days, maybe three. I don't see any land. I can hope for a rescue, but I don't expect it. So far as I know, no one saw us go down, no one knew where we went down." He took a sip, not meeting their eyes.

"Nothing to do but float and think and pray. I realize that I can die brave or I can die cowardly, and nobody but myself and God will ever know. I really wanted to cry and scream about how unfair it is that I, Gunner Raymundo Vecchio of Chicago and the US Air Force, should be eaten by fishes, and beg God, St. Jude -- beg anybody -- to get me back on dry land in one piece."

"But you know, I couldn't do it. Didn't fit my style."

Kowalski laughed.

"No, I'm serious. All the saints knew I wanted to live, but I was there and all I had was myself and my life preserver. And for my own satisfaction, I wanted to die the way I'd lived, like a brave American soldier. So I said a prayer for intervention, said an Ave, and settled down to wait.

"A couple hours later, I was picked up. I've had some close calls since then, but. . . it's  
easier now. I know how I'm going to act when my time comes."

* * *

  


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	7. 1947Chicago, Ray quits the Force

  


#   
1947Chicago, Ray quits the Force  


 

Ray's telling a story -- probably to Fraser -- about why he quit the police to become a PI.

Before this, there's plenty of mention of corruption in the ranks. The story is set in about 1942, he's telling the story in 1947-48.

The deferment he mentions is deferment from military service.

* * *

That was the year everything fell apart. The winter of my discontent. We were so short of men, we borrowed from the other departments whenever something big hit, so when someone in Vice decided it was time to raid the fag bar again, I was there.

I was there in the sleet as we moved in, surrounded the place, just like closing in on a speakeasy during Prohibition. I hadn't been on the Force then, but enough old timers were around so I heard all about it. Except I remember thinking that the speakeasies had had better protection.

It was a lousy day to be a cop. Sure, back then I lived for rousting bad guys, for a good fight for a good cause. For the chance to knock some heads together and blow off steam. But all that happened that day was the head-bashing, and a gut feeling that this wasn't a good cause. It wasn't even a decent fight 'cause these guys might be illegal perverts sapping the moral strength of our nation, or whatever the party line was, but they didn't stand a chance. They could run like rabbits, but we'd catch them. They could fight, but they couldn't win, not with the numbers and the guns we brought with us. And whether they fought or not, they'd still end up holding cracked heads, sitting cuffed in the bullpen.

All in a days work, right? We bust in the doors, we caught the runners, fought the fighters, hauled out the hiders, loaded the bunch of them into paddy wagons. I did my share of swinging my stick that day. But I couldn't help seeing the faces of those faggots. They were just guys, just guys in the wrong kind of bar, just people being beaten and terrorized by the cops who'd sworn to serve and protect.

Then I sat at my desk, processing this Irish guy, and he tells me about his wife. Ya can tell he loved her, and she'd leave him when she heard about this. He says, "I got $100 in my pocket right now. How much to let me walk?"

And that's it. That was my breaking point. I'd done my damnedest to be a good cop, a straight cop, but here I was, being given a choice between ruining this jerk's life or taking a bribe ta do what I wanted to do in the first place. That was the way the system worked, and that was what was going on all around me, and I couldn't change it.

I swore at him for a while, and he shut up and took it. I put the booking form into a file, and slipped the picture of Stella that I keep in my desk drawer into the same file. Then I ignored him while I wrote my letter of resignation and dropped it in Welsh's in basket. The Irish guy wasn't going anywhere, not cuffed to the chair like he was.

I got the file and my coat from my desk, and started to walk away. But I came back and got Patrick. Of all the things I did that day, that's the only one that doesn't make me wince. Walked him down to the front of the Precinct, uncuffing him on the way. Walked out with him and told him to avoid the 27th from now on. He took off, I never saw him again.

I tossed the guy's booking form in a fire barrel on the way home. Told Stella I'd quit and we had another one of those fights -- the knock-down fights that end up in hot sex on the floor. Used to be, I'd pick a fight with her, let her rip into me, tell me what a dumb Polack I was, just for the good part at the end. Only this fight, and the ones after it, were long on the yelling and short on the loving.

She left me before spring came.

Stel wants to change the world, and she just might do it. She wants to be State's Attorney, and she needs a man who'll be right beside her, fighting for justice and upholding the law. She had plans for me -- I'd made detective and she wanted me to go higher, right up the ladder and into City Hall. My quitting the Force was the start of the finish of us.

I'd gotten a deferment, 'cause Welsh wanted to hang on to me, probably because Stella's talked to somebody who'd talked to somebody. Since I was out of the Force, and with Stella gone, I joined up. I wanted to fight, I wanted to kill someone and not feel bad about it. I wanted to get away from the bribes and the dirty business and just. . . just be a hero for once, the way I'd always thought being a cop would make me feel. And maybe I'd get killed in the line of duty, and maybe Stel would cry when Mom told her, and that'd be okay, if she cried at my memorial service, that'd be a good enough life for Ray Kowalski.

I was one messed up kid.

* * *

  


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